How much longer will this work?

Physical wounds were healing, but there was still a lot going on behind those deep green eyes that he didn’t share. Somewhere a long the line, he’d broken down and that was the reason the Marine was slouched in the corner of his back alley bar more than three sheet to the wind. The simple piercing of his veins would keep a vampire with a buzz for a month or more. He’d abandoned his usual thug wear for blue jeans and a white wife beater, it showed the stitches in his shoulder and several of the scrapes along his back, but the wounds that mattered the most were invisible. They slipped into his dreams and clouded those usual bright emeralds. He found it hard to sleep and had slipped from their bed in favor of whiskey and a chilling urge in his veins that creeped up on him from adolescence. That urge scared him more than he cared to admit and he’d went off searching to kill it. Enough alcohol mixing with his blood and slowly he forgot the sting of the needle. It escaped him and ran back to his teenage years without another thought, but there was still a lot more wrong than he cared to admit. There was only so much a man could take before he broke completely and he was on the edge of it. It was only a matter of time before he gave up completely and became someone who he’d spent an entire lifetime running away from. He swore he’d never go back there, but here he was. Slouched back in the darkest corner of the bar, mirrored glass fixed over his eyes and a book bag at his side. There were enough bottles in that bag to almost open another bar entirely and he was dead set on draining ever last one of them ’til it killed him. That would stop the nightmares, that would stop the edgy glances he gave himself in the mirror while he was fighting down the compulsion to shatter it. The glass in the bathroom had already suffered such a fate and the blood on his knuckles was a testament to that. He hadn’t woken up screaming, that was a start. Though the cold sweat was there and the temperature rose to nearly hundred on his skin and it took all he had to choke back that scream and slip from the sheets. The coughing had started and he’d been physically sick. There was nothing more that he wished for in that moment than death. So, here he was, drinking until he couldn’t feel it anymore. Until the eye in his mind stop replaying the slaughter of hundreds of innocent people for no reason. Bad decisions that killed brothers and sisters in arms, innocent people who had to die simply because their governments had given the wrong answer. It was all pointless and that was why he couldn’t sleep, why in that moment he hated himself more than he’d hated anyone. It rushed into his blood and he’d almost ended it. Instead he was numbing it, but how much longer would that work?

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